He walked like he had a crowbar stuck up his ass.

Dr. Joseph Gollahan: Executive Director of the Bradford Day School and Residential Treatment Center. A credit to his kind . . . if your kind associates with ass-holes.

Administrators at alternative programs always seem to amuse the front-line staff. The suckers who get punched in the face, spit at, threatened by kids who have a right to be pissed at the world. Gollahan would strut around with the latest textbook on treatment of troubled adolescence under his arm — looking the part of exalted leader in a hundred dollar Sims suit.

I remember once, while I was in the midst of a violent restraint with a kid that just found out his brother was shot; Doctor Gollahan peeked his head into the "rubber room" to see what the commotion was. When the kid saw Gollahan he pleaded:

"Joe," (the kids called him Joe — it helps therapeutically to call me by my first name he once told me.) "I need to go home and be with my family."

While yelling his request at the top of his lungs, some phlegm accidentally flew out of his mouth and hit Big Joe in the face.

Coolly, Dr. Gollahan removed a handkerchief from his pocket and told the boy,

"That's Dr. Gollahan to you, young man", and haughtily left the room.

"Come back you mother-fucker!", the child screamed as he continued to kick, scratch, and punch the anger out of himself.

When he finally calmed down, and the crying started over his brother who lied near death in a Boston hospital, Gollahan was gone, leaving early to coach his ten-year-old son's soccer team, never realizing the sweat and blood I spilled while trying to stop this kid from hurting himself or me. Failing to recognize what he had done to a boy who was hurting so much inside that his anguish almost brought me to tears. While Dr. Gollahan was teaching the technique of a corner kick, I left for the day and headed down to Smitty's bar. He had his reality—unfortunately I had mine.